


There's Mischief and Mayhem and Songs to Be Sung

by Alcoholic_Kangaroo



Category: DuckTales (Cartoon 2017)
Genre: Alcohol, Bigotry & Prejudice, Christmas fic, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:09:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28212951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Alcoholic_Kangaroo/pseuds/Alcoholic_Kangaroo
Summary: Obligatory Christmas fic. Gyro ends up bringing Fenton home for the holidays to meet his family. It doesn't go great.
Relationships: Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera/Gyro Gearloose
Comments: 27
Kudos: 61





	There's Mischief and Mayhem and Songs to Be Sung

**Author's Note:**

> The season's upon us, it's that time of year  
> Brandy and eggnog, there's plenty of cheer  
> There's lights on the trees and there's wreaths to be hung  
> There's mischief and mayhem and songs to be sung  
> They call this Christmas where I'm from  
> \- The Season's Upon Us by Dropkick Murphys

It’s four days before Christmas and it’s as if buckets of water are just being dumped from the sky onto the city of Duckburg. The rain is heavy, cold, and relentless. The sprint from the car to the Bin’s doors is enough to soak through the most resistant clothing and the downpour is so heavy the eye scanner keeps malfunctioning, picking up droplets of water as they fall past and misreading them as part of his pupil. Fenton is forced to set down his duffle bag full of equipment and papers so that he can shield his eyes and the machine’s lens with his hands, allowing the scanner to finally confirm his identity and unlock the entranceway into the building. When he throws the bag back over his shoulder it is sopping wet and a splatter of mud is already dripping down his sides. Delightful.

He doesn’t make it more than a foot into the lab before he’s spotted. Immediately, Gyro is berating him, yelling at him to wash himself off before he takes another step into his lab.

“What did you do, run a mile around some filthy high school track? Look at you! Take off those hideous rain boots, you’re getting mud all over my immaculate floor.”

“They’re not hideous,” Fenton mutters defiantly. However, they are his mother’s boots; bright yellow with little pink flowers on them. His own are baby blue and relatively simple in comparison but he couldn’t find them this morning and he had been running late. He bends down to pull them off, nearly falling over in the process and having to use his hand to steady himself against the wall.

Gyro’s are already by the door. Simple black rubber boots to match the simple black wool coat hanging above them. Fenton lines his own boots up beside them, hangs up his mustard yellow peacoat beside Gyro’s. Then, at Gyro’s insistence, he makes a visit to one of the lab’s showers. They were installed specifically for chemical spills but work fine for mud in a pinch. He uses one of the little bars of single-use soap to coat his feathers in a thick layer of suds and rinses them off, watching the brown-tinted water run down the drain.

Perhaps having your boss greet you fresh and nude straight out of the shower is a questionable business practice, but at least he is considerate enough to wait until Fenton’s toweling himself off before he starts grilling him for information.

“What are you even doing here?” Gyro demands, standing in front of him with his arms crossed across his chest. A year ago, heck, six months ago, Fenton would have felt uncomfortable in this position. Standing here naked and wet in front of his fully clothed mentor. He continues to wipe down his chest feathers with the towel. “Aren’t you supposed to be in Florida with your family by now? Or at least on your way?”

“Yeah, well,” Fenton shrugs, moving down to dry his belly. He doesn’t elaborate, figuring Gyro will let the topic drop as he usually does when it comes to anything personal in his life, but he must be feeling flush with the holiday spirit because he prods deeper for more information.

“They didn’t cancel the flight due to the rain, did they?” Gyro asks, sounding so inconvenienced you’d think he had been the one to miss his plane. He grabs the towel angrily from Fenton’s hands and roughly scrubs at the feathers on Fenton’s head, the cheap terry cloth rough against his scalp. “A little rain is no excuse for these shoddy airlines to ground the jets.”

“The flight wasn’t canceled,” Fenton replies, wincing at the rough treatment. He can feel Gyro’s long, bony fingers digging into his head. He turns when Gyro twirls his finger, indicating he should do so. His tail receives similar treatment to his head, the older man holding it between his hands and rubbing vigorously as if he were trying to start a fire with a couple of sticks. “I just didn’t get on it. M’ma should be arriving soon.”

“You didn’t go with her?” Gyro asks, removing the towel. Fingers stroke his tail, smoothing down the ruffled feathers. When they reach the tip, they continue down along the bottom, no longer smoothing but stroking. Fenton resists the urge to shiver. The bottom of his tail is extremely sensitive and close to other parts that are even more so. He wonders if this is leading to something. This early in the morning?

“The plane was full,” he admits, breathing heavily. His voice cracks, pathetically, and he hears a satisfied little hum from Gyro behind him. “All of them are, there aren’t any tickets left before the Christmas.”

“Your mother didn’t buy yours for you?” Gyro questions, now encircling Fenton’s tail in one hand. He pulls his hand down along the length, letting the tip fall from his grasp, then repeats the motion starting at the base. “I thought you were traveling together.”

“I- We normally do, yeah. But she thought,” Fenton stumbles over the words, distracted by the persistent petting. He resists the urge to wag his tail happily under the touch. “She thought I planned on spending the holiday with my boyfriend, so she didn’t buy my ticket. By the time she realized I wasn’t going to be, everything was booked solid. She was going to stay but I told her I'd be fine on my own.”

“Your boyfriend, huh?” Gyro teases, playfully. He runs his hand over the fuzzy tail once more then pulls back. He climbs to his feet and snaps the damp towel in the air, shaking out the wrinkles. “Is that the title you’ve been using? Boyfriend? Well, at least you’re not pretending to be straight anymore.”

Fenton sighs, deflating visibly. Partly out of the disappointment of no longer having Gyro’s hands on him, partly because he both does and doesn’t want to have this conversation again. What they are is not vague, but it is also not defined by any of the usual terminologies. They are exclusive, but not dating. They are extremely sexual but only semi-romantic. To some, they may be considered friends with benefits, except Gyro loathes to refer to Fenton as a friend. Yet he also loathes to share him or hear him speak of any other potential love interests. Even hearing Fenton acknowledge another person's general attractiveness can send him into one of his silent-treatment tantrums for several hours. Fenton knows he is absolutely in love with his boss and he is about fifty percent sure those feelings are returned.

Gyro says labels are pointless.

Fenton doesn’t know what happened in Gyro’s past to install this fear of commitment inside him, but he doesn’t want to lose what they have, and pushing it won’t help anything.

“Dry already,” Gyro muses, pressing his palm into the feathers on Fenton’s chest. He rakes his fingers through the pale brown down, going against the grain so the feathers appear disheveled. “The benefits of being a duck. If it was me, I’d still look like I just crawled half-drowned out of a lake. Well, go ahead, get dressed. This is our last day to finish up any loose ends.”

“Right away,” Fenton agrees, pressing his feathers back into place. He picks up his work shirt and slips it over his arms, reaching down to button it. The dampness of it feels harsh and his tie feels choking. He’s aroused from their interactions and every nerve ending has been left yearning for his mentor's touch.

It isn’t just a physical longing. He doesn’t want this to be their last day together. He won’t see Gyro until after the new year and that thought leaves an aching empty feeling in his chest. He can’t name the last time he’s gone so long without seeing him. Sometime before he was his lover, certainly. Last Christmas, probably. They had first hooked up on Valentine’s night over a pity meal of sushi and sake at someplace by the bay that Gyro had recommended. Two bachelors spending a lonely night together. Fenton had been complaining about how undesirable he was, and Gyro had been complaining about how absolutely desirable Fenton had looked that night. It had been a sexual thing in the beginning. For the first couple of months. Hurried, desperate encounters after work or sometimes during work, when the prolonged exposure to each other’s presence had left them aching and wanting.

Apparently, today is one of those days. They don’t even make it to lunch before the older man’s hands are on him, grabbing him, hiking him up against one of the glass walls. They both knew it was going to go this way, ever since Gyro had started playing with his tail that morning. An agonizing hint of foreplay that Gyro knows gets Fenton going. But more than that, Gyro’s fascination with Fenton’s tail has been known to toe along the line of fetishistic. It was inevitable.

They’re breaking a dozen sexual harassment laws, maybe more, but Fenton wants it just as much as his boss. He clamps his thighs around Gyro’s waist, using what strength he possesses to pull him close. When he initiates the kiss, Gyro returns it.

“I didn’t expect you to be here today but I’m glad you are,” Gyro huffs right before he pushes inside. Fenton wraps his arms around the scientist’s neck and allows himself to be taken right there in the middle of the lab. Gyro burrows his hands into the thick feathers of his backside, squeezing him close, kneading him like he’s made of bread dough instead of flesh and bone and feathers. He’s always handsy when he’s inside him.

Afterward, he allows Fenton to cuddle him. This is something they only do after sex, when Gyro is limp and boneless, and Fenton is emotional and needy. The fit is tight. Gyro is skinny and Fenton is small, and the office chair has been built to accommodate larger people than the both of them together. But there is only so much available limb space between the arms, so Fenton sits astride Gyro’s legs, his knees on each side, and nuzzles into the man’s neck. Most of his weight is supported by his own knees and shins but he is not hesitant to plop his butt down on Gyro’s thighs. The guy is stronger than he looks.

“This is nice,” Gyro admits. He’s got his hands around Fenton’s waist, stroking them slowly up and down his sides, feeling every breath he takes. It tickles, sending goosebumps down Fenton’s arms. “I wish we could just stay like this.”

“We can,” Fenton murmurs against his throat. He wiggles, adjusting his position so some of the weight is off his knees. The chair rocks with the movement, made to deal with jittery gamers and bored office workers. He clutches at Gyro tighter to avoid being shaken off. “I think we can both admit we’re not going to get any more work done today.”

“I don’t mean for just a couple of hours,” Gyro says. He lets his right hand travel up Fenton’s back and slide around the back of his skull, cupping his head and holding him in place. As if Fenton had any plans to go anywhere. “I meant for this whole damn holiday. I don’t want to make the drive in the morning.”

Understandable. Holiday traffic. From what Fenton has picked up, it won’t just be a half-hour trip either. He isn’t exactly sure where Gyro’s family lives, he just knows that it’s at least a few hours away after listening to Gyro complain about it for the last week.

“Aren’t you excited to see your family?” Fenton asks. His breath is hot and damp against Gyro's feathers. “I’m sure it will be worth the trip.”

“I hate my family,” the other man gripes. He turns his head, unexpectedly, and nuzzles at the feathers on Fenton’s head. His words come out sullen. “Why would you think I like my family any more than I like anybody else? I wouldn’t even bother with them if my sister and her kids didn’t insist on going every year.”

“It’s nice to be around family during the holidays,” Fenton insists, voice placid and serene. He’s eating up the attention from his mentor. “You get to share old stories and eat lots of food and sing together.”

“If you enjoy being around your family so much, why did you make up an excuse to avoid them?” Gyro teases. He kisses Fenton lovingly on the temple then rests his cheek against it. Normally, such an open show of affection would bring a smile to Fenton’s face, but not today. He’s mildly appalled.

“Make up an excuse? I didn’t make up any excuse?”

“The whole thing about you spending the holiday with your boyfriend?” Gyro offers up in explanation, humor apparent in his voice. “Or am I supposed to think your mother just assumed that one on her own?”

“I told her I might be spending it with you because you said maybe when I mentioned it to you,” Fenton says, petulantly. “When I asked you back in September, remember?”

“Wait, what,” Gyro sputters. His hands plant on Fenton’s shoulders and push him back so that he can look at him as he speaks. “You mean when you asked if I wanted to rent a cabin in the mountains and go skiing? I thought you were joking!”

“Why would I joke about something like that?” Fenton pouts, hiding the little needle of pain in his heart that he feels over having Gyro mock him. It’s not like it’s anything new but there’s a difference between mocking him for his abilities, or lack thereof, and mocking him for his feelings towards him. He sits back further on Gyro’s lap, careful not to crush his tail. “I thought it would be nice to get away together. Just the two of us.”

“But skiing?” the older man sputters. He reaches up to rake his fingers through his own feathers, exasperated. “Skiing? Do I look like a man who has ever gone skiing in his life? Do you? We’re not jocks, we’re science nerds.”

“I asked if you wanted to rent a place at the ski lodge,” Fenton corrects, rolling his eyes. “It has a bunch of hot springs and a wine tasting room and they do this big light-up ceremony every night over their ice sculpture display. I didn’t mean we’d literally go skiing.”

“Oh,” Gyro says, lost for words. He’s still staring Fenton in the eye, making him feel so uncomfortable the duck can’t help but avert his eyes. Sometimes Gyro can be so intense. “You’re right, that might have been enjoyable. More enjoyable than a week with my family, definitely.”

“Yeah, well,” Fenton shrugs listlessly, still looking down. “Maybe next year.”

He looks so defeated, slumping his shoulders in a way that looks absolutely alien for a person usually so full of energy. Gyro pulls him close again, clutching him tight to him. He’s so warm.

“I’m sorry,” he says sincerely, allowing some of his true feelings to seep through for once. “I would have agreed if I knew you had meant it. If I hadn’t already told my family I was coming I could have at least stayed here and spent it with you.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fenton shakes his head. He struggles to sit up again. He doesn’t want to have this conversation in Gyro’s embrace. Gyro allows him to pull back and he climbs to his feet, off of his mentor’s lap. He glances around for his shirt, trying to figure out where Gyro had thrown it. “I’ve got some frozen lasagna in the freezer, I’ll be fine. I’ll binge-watch the Harry Potter movies or something.”

“Come over tonight,” Gyro blurts out suddenly, voice high pitched, cracking. He actually sounds more surprised by his own invitation than Fenton feels, and Fenton is pretty damn surprised. He looks down at the naked man on the chair, sitting forward now with his elbows on his knees. “I mean…spend the night at my place. I’ll make my famous strawberry waffles for breakfast.”

“Aren’t you leaving for your parents’ house before the sun’s up?” Fenton asks, the offer still hanging in the air between them. Gyro has never, not once, invited him to his place. They always hook up at work or in Fenton’s bedroom when his mother is at work or that one time at Launchpad’s place. Fenton doesn’t even know Gyro’s living situation. Assumedly, Gyro probably makes enough working for Mr. McDuck to live on his own without any roommates, but whether that is in an apartment, condo, or house is a mystery.

“Don’t worry about it,” Gyro writes off Fenton’s concern, waving his hand as if he can wave away Fenton’s words. “I’ll tell them I got busy with work suddenly. We can spend the week together.”

“You made a promise to your family,” Fenton objects, shaking his head. “What are we without our family?”

“Sane,” the older man deadpans.

“Promises are important,” Fenton objects. “You need to keep them. I’ll be okay.”

“Dummy,” Gyro smiles. The insult comes out more like a term of endearment. He climbs to his feet and takes Fenton’s hands in his own, towering over him. “Fine. This is some Hallmark movie cliche, but I know you were hoping for it, so you’re invited to come with me. You can meet my parents.”

“Wait, seriously?” Fenton asks, squinting up at him.

“Seriously. And stop looking at me like that. Stop smiling like that! God, this entire lab reeks of sex. And I’m starving. Screw it, let’s call it an early day. Everything will still be here when we get back.”

* * *

Fenton doesn’t know what he had been expecting, exactly. Half of him had assumed that Gyro had been raised in an upper-class suburban neighborhood due to his sometimes blatantly snobby demeanor. The other half had always envisioned some sort of pod situation where he had sprung fully formed with calculator in hand. Both of those ideas make more sense than the reality of it all.

“You grew up on a farm?” Fenton asks excitedly, bouncing in his seat as they drive past a field full of wooly white mammals. He presses his hands to the window as they pass. “You never told me you grew up on a farm!”

“I never found it needed worth mentioning,” Gyro replies dryly. “Will you please sit down; this damn road is already full of potholes. I’m pretty sure they’re the exact same ones from when I was a kid.”

“I bet you used to wear overalls when you were a boy,” Fenton says, plopping back down in his seat. “And chew on pieces of hay in the summer. I bet you were adorable.”

Gyro makes a vaguely annoyed muttering sound but doesn’t confirm nor deny Fenton’s fantasy of his childhood. He’s been in a good mood since they left work yesterday. Dinner and an evening of sex and bad Christmas movies had left him feeling generous and sappy as they had lounged together on his winter sheets, drinking spiked hot chocolate and discussing the inaccuracies of wind-up reindeer being used to pull Santa’s sleigh. Why did they even bother to set an alarm, let alone climb out of bed this morning? As he approaches the last mile to his childhood home, he can already feel his mood starting to turn sour.

“I hate that smell,” he confides, voice thick with disgust. He doesn’t look at Fenton as he talks. “Do you smell it? The smell of cowshit. Ugh, and that house. That falling apart shack over there. My middle school bully lived there. He used to hold me down and spit on my face.”

“Maybe he had a crush on you,” Fenton suggests, cheerfully. Either not catching the annoyance in Gyro’s tone or hoping his endless optimism will overcome it.

“Gay kids don’t come from small towns,” Gyro says bitterly. “Don’t you know, fags come from the cities.”

“Are, are you okay?” Fenton asks, a sudden tremor in his voice.

“Fine and dandy,” Gyro says sarcastically. He glances out of the corner of his eye and sees where Fenton has drawn in on himself. He sighs, reaching over to take one of his hands. “I’m sorry, I just have a lot of bad memories from this place. Don’t let me ruin your holiday.”

Gyro’s childhood house is old and in need of a paint job, the once-white boards peeling and faded. There are some large windows in the front, but they’re almost completely covered by some overgrown bushes framing the foundation of the house. Fenton tilts his head to look up at the place. Two stories. Not huge, but bigger than his mother’s house. He wonders if the windows on the second story, the ones overlooking the dirt road leading to the house, might have belonged to Gyro. There’s an American flag waving from a pole sticking off the roof of the porch they ascend.

They’re greeted at the front door by an older couple that leaves Fenton blinking in surprise. Gyro looks just like them. Not in the way that he inherited some features from one and some features from the other, but in the way that his mother and his father also look exactly like each other. Except in male and female form. It’s startling.

He wants to ask Gyro if his parents also happen to be siblings, but he doesn’t think anybody, including Gyro, would take the question well.

“Finally,” his mother squawks, grabbing Gyro into a tight hug. She’s as tall and skinny as her son with the same intense eyes. “Been a year and you couldn’t get here on time to see your own mother?”

“There was traffic,” Gyro breathes out, still crushed in the woman’s arms. “I said sometime between ten and noon, it’s barely eleven.”

Fenton hears a dog barking from inside the house, scratching at the door. Nobody else seems to notice it, or at least they don’t acknowledge it.

“So this is the mystery guest you called to say you were bringing along last minute,” the man says, looking down at Fenton in a way that makes it extremely obvious he’s being inspected and judged like some show dog. Or show sheep, perhaps, given the circumstance. Fenton thinks he may be a couple of inches taller than his son but it might just have something to do with the intimidating way he’s looking at him. “That’s some color for a coat, kid. Guessing you’ve always been a city boy?”

Fenton glances down at his yellow peacoat then back up, opening his mouth as he tries to come up with a response. What’s wrong with his coat?

Mrs. Cabrera releases her gasping son from her grip, turning to face Fenton now as well. He’s afraid for a minute she might try to hug him too because her hugs look vicious, but she just reaches out to shake his hand. “I’ve been told that you work for my son?”

“He works with me,” Gyro corrects her. Fenton feels his hand, gentle yet firm, on the small of his back. “Not for me. Mom, this is my colleague, Fenton. Fenton, these are my parents.”

“You’d think this one was born in the barn with all the manners he has,” Mr. Gearloose grumbles. “Doesn’t even know how to properly introduce a person.”

“Fenton Crackshell-Cabrera, sir.” Fenton quickly extends his hand for a polite handshake that quickly turns into him grimacing and pulling back to cradle his throbbing fingers.

“Cabrera? What’s that, Mexican?” Mr. Gearloose is still glaring down at Fenton and he feels like shrinking down into himself. What did he do wrong? Is this how this man always looks at people? He recalls feeling the same way with Gyro, originally, so maybe it’s just something about how this family holds himself. He forces himself to stand tall.

“Cuban, actually,” he smiles as genuine as he can.

“A commie?” Mr. Gearloose snorts, ignoring his gaze entirely as he now looks towards his son, questioningly.

“Well, technically speaking, my family left to escape the-”

“It must have been so difficult growing up in a third world country,” Mrs. Gearloose interrupts. She pats Fenton sympathetically on his sore hand. He flinches on instinct.

“What? No, I’ve never even been to-”

“Where are your bags?” Mr. Gearloose interrupts this time, still looking at Gyro, all but dismissing Fenton from his presence. “You’re going to be here until the New Year, you brought clothes, didn’t you?”

“I thought it would be nice for you to meet my friend before we dragged in a bunch of luggage, Father,” Gyro gets out through the gritted teeth of a forced smile. “Fenton, go get our bags from the car.”

“Yes, sir, Dr. Gearloose,” Fenton stutters, turning on his heels. He’s halfway to the car before he realizes what he called Gyro and he feels like dying inside. He doesn’t even remember the last time he referred to him by his professional title and he probably looks like a complete idiot.

Their bedroom is upstairs, but it faces the back of the house, not the front. There is a large field framed by fences to the side and some woods a good quarter-mile away, but no animals seem to be roaming about. Fenton presses his palms to the glass, scanning the dead brown grass for any sign of something living. The only movement is the grass in the wind.

“Was this your bedroom?” He asks, turning around to watch Gyro meticulously unfold his clothes to hang up inside the small closet to the right of the door. The room looks like it was probably built to be a bedroom but there isn’t a bed, just a couch that Gyro had said was the pull-out they will be sleeping on tonight. There is an old desk with a computer on it by the door and a stair-stepper machine directly in the middle that will need to be moved before pulling out the bed though Fenton has no idea where it would be moved to since the room is so small. The walls are a faded blue floral wallpaper that looks older than Gyro.

“It was,” Gyro confirms. He lifts his head an inch, looking up at the walls and ceiling. “I always hated the wallpaper. I covered it up with all my science posters. I had a large periodic table poster right there, where my bed used to be. I used to lie in bed and try to memorize all the information on it before I went to sleep at night. You’d never guess it was ever there, now. They threw out all my stuff as soon as I went away to college.”

“That’s not very nice of them,” Fenton replies, frowning. He’s trying to imagine the room as it might have looked nearly three decades ago.

“Yeah, well, they weren’t happy that I didn’t want to stay home and go to agricultural school at the community college. Though they didn’t seem to care when my sister moved across the country to get a degree in singing to plants or whatever. Anyway, that table would be horribly outdated now anyway. Do you have anything you want me to hang up for you?”

Only a couple of pairs of nice slacks he had brought along to dress up for dinner and maybe some family photos if the Gearloose family is the type to take such photos. Gyro had mostly packed his usual button-down business-casual style shirts, but Fenton seems to own a sweater in every color of the rainbow. He removes them from his suitcase, shaking each of them out and folding them neatly as he creates a tidy pile on the empty side of the computer desk because, as he claims, they need to “air out.” He removes his peacoat and day-old button-down he had worn to work yesterday and slips one of the sweaters over his head. The neck is tight and gets stuck for an instant on his head as he struggled to pull it down. When he’s free his hair looks frazzled, standing up in all directions even more than usual.

Gyro touches his head, brushing the feathers down for him as he asks him about his apparent preference for knitted apparel.

“My Abuelita knits me a new one every Christmas,” he explains. He pulls on the bottom of the forest green sweater he’s wearing, looking at the decorative design knit into the pattern. It’s a bit big on him, covering his hands so only the tips of his fingers show. “Well, not just me. She knits one for all of us.”

“She must be sad you won’t be there this year,” Gyro observes.

“Well, yeah, but it’s okay. She knows we all have other stuff going on sometimes.” He picks up one of the sweaters in a navy blue and turns to show it to Gyro, holding it up against his chest so he can see how it might look on him if he were wearing it. “This is the one she gave me last year.”

“It’s nice,” Gyro says lamely. He feels like itching, just looking at it. They all look so scratchy. Sweaters always look scratchy to him. A side effect of growing up on a sheep farm.

“You could wear it if you like,” Fenton offers, beaming at him. “She always knits them long on me. Oh, but it might be a little loose on you. Maybe the pink one, it’s always been a bit tighter around the middle.”

“I’m fine,” Gyro waves off his offer. “I don’t think my parents should see me wearing your clothes around anyway. They might start asking questions.”

“Oh,” Fenton says, lowering his arms with disappointment. The sweater is so long it almost brushes against the floor.

“I don’t have the right body for sweaters, anyway,” Gyro says, not an apology but hoping it comes off as one. He sets his hands on Fenton’s shoulders and runs his fingers down his arms to cup his elbows. Alright, the yarn Fenton’s grandmother used is softer than he would have imagined. Very soft. Not sheep wool, maybe cashmere or mohair, or maybe something artificial even. Which may very well have the side benefit of offending his parents. Not that he would mention it to Fenton. “You, on the other hand, look adorable like this. Squeezable soft. I wish you showed up for work dressed like this every day, but I don’t know if I would be able to get anything accomplished with you distracting me.”

“The sleeves would just get in the way,” Fenton says, smiling up at Gyro despite himself. He’s already leaning up for a kiss.

A shrill, echoing voice calls from downstairs, interrupting their moment. Gyro rolls his eyes and yells that they’ll be right down. Like that, he has transformed from Fenton’s affectionate lover to a cranky old man.

“I know they can come off as overly judgmental,” he says, sighing. “I’m sorry about that. Trust me, any criticism they may show towards you is just them trying to get to me. Believe me.”

“I’m sure it won’t be that bad,” Fenton says. He reaches for Gyro’s hand but he’s already walking away from Fenton, towards the door. He has no choice but to quickly follow.

Gyro only manages to put up with his parents for an hour before he’s dragging Fenton into the car, saying something about picking up some wine for dinner. Fenton stumbles after him, unable to keep up with Gyro’s long, hurried strides. His mother follows after them, nagging about his sister arriving in only two hours, but if he’s out anyway could he pick up some fresh sage at the grocery store?

“If I manage to spend two hours in town it’s because I decided to just started chugging the wine in the middle of the store,” he complains to Fenton. “Not to say I’m not tempted.”

The town is only four miles from the house but the opposite way they had arrived this morning, so they hadn’t driven through it earlier. There are two liquor stores and Gyro says they specifically have to go to the one near the sandwich shop not the one near the laundry mat because “That place is run by the local meth dealers.” Fenton isn’t sure if he’s joking but he laughs anyway.

The store has a twenty percent off sale for packs of six. Six seems like a lot until Gyro points out they have a week of family dinners to get through.

“We could have been at that wine tasting room in the mountains you were talking about,” he tells Fenton as he’s inspecting a bottle of Sangiovese. “Instead we’re here buying this overpriced crap in this shitty little town in the middle of nowhere. This isn’t even oaked. The same battle at the place near my condo is eight dollars less.”

“Maybe we could stop at a winery on the drive back down?” Fenton suggests, helpfully. Not down to the farmhouse, but after the New Year. They had passed several of them on the way north.

“That would be nice,” Gyro agrees with a nod. He throws the Sangiovese in the basket anyway. “God, my sister drinks white. I know shit about whites. Any idea if Riesling is any good? Chardonnay is so basic; I feel like that would be an insult to buy her that.”

They sneak the bottle of whiskey they also buy into the house in a tote bag full of stocking stuffers Gyro brought along for the kids. Fenton isn’t exactly sure why its existence has to be a secret, but Gyro tells him to hide it in their bedroom somewhere the kids won’t be able to reach. He stuffs it behind a sleeping bag on the closet’s shelf. Gyro’s mother is preparing a big meal even though it’s still two days before Christmas but when Fenton offers to help her she tells him he’s sweet but “This is women’s work, go watch the game with the boys.”

Fenton doesn’t even know what sport they’re watching. He’s from a family of strong women and none of them had ever shown any interest in sports. But he’s stuck sitting silently on the brown and orange couch with the pheasant print until the fabled sister finally arrives. At least he has the dog to pet in the meantime. It’s a border collie that everyone calls “Saggy” though Fenton has a suspicion that isn’t her real name. She’s friendly, anyway, and plants herself on Fenton’s lap with a quick pat.

“Gyro!” The young woman that looks, unsurprisingly, like both her parents and Gyro, slaps at her brother’s arm when she sees Fenton. “You didn’t tell me you were bringing a date this year!”

He rubs at his arm as he introduces them, along with the rest of the family. Johanna, the husband Chris, and their two kids, Newton and Georgina. Newton is the eldest by at least three or four years. Fenton shakes hands with both of them, thankful for the softness in Chris’ grip. He’s shorter than everybody else in the house besides Fenton and the kids. Somehow, Fenton has never considered there was a brother-in-law involved in all this. Nobody had mentioned him, it’s always been “Johanna and the kids.”

Gyro’s parents pay Chris about as much attention as they pay Fenton, which is a nice change of pace. They shake hands and then share a drink together on the outskirts of the family circle, politely exchanging pleasantries about school, jobs, and eventually books once Chris shares that he works at the same elementary school where Johanna teaches, except as the school librarian.

“Instilling a love for reading at a very young age is one of the best things you can do for a child’s development,” he explains to Fenton in a soothingly deep voice. “Parents today are so concerned with trying to make sure their kids can read by the time they’re five, they don’t stop to think about what they’re reading. Neither of my kids learned to read until they started school but they both could recite entire books from memory.”

“My M’ma used to read true crime books to me when I was a baby,” Fenton confesses, getting a laugh out of the other man. “I mean, I was too young to understand any of it. But my Abuelita likes to share the story every year.”

“Excuse me for my ignorance, but would you be able to recommend any Spanish language books for young readers? I have the recommended book lists, of course, but it’s always better to ask the native speakers what they enjoyed as children.”

Gyro is visibly more relaxed with his sister and her family than he is with his parents. The kids stay at his sides, asking him questions about what he did since they last saw him and sharing stories of their own. Newton has signed up for his middle school science fair in January and shares details on his project with them both, gaining some advice from both Gyro and Fenton on how to go about it. Georgina, or Gigi for short, is seven and taking ballet. She insists on showing off her new routine which is clumsily adorable and leaves Fenton once more contemplating whether or not he wishes to have kids someday. When he tells her she’s better than the professionals he’s seen perform at the Duckburg conservatory, she asks to sit on his lap.

Johanna and Chris both excuse themselves for a short nap before dinner, citing the long plane ride and nearly as long drive. Fenton is surprised when Gyro offers to take the kids outside to see some of the animals in the barn without even needing prompting. He hasn’t offered to take Fenton to pet any of the livestock.

He’s hoping there will be some horses but the barn only houses some rabbits, a few goats, and two cows.

“The goats and cows are usually in the field behind the house,” Gyro says, petting the long nose of one of the cows. It’s so big, its head is larger than Gyro’s entire torso. The long tongue on the thing keeps catching Gyro’s hanging sleeve, not quite pulling the cloth into its mouth. Fenton had drawn back in fear when it had tried to lick him, but Gyro seems unperturbed. “Dad probably brought them in because of the rain. They try to break through the fence to get under the trees. We lost a calf to some coyotes once because of a bad rainstorm.”

Fenton likes the goats best. The rabbits are cute but they’re not as friendly as the goats and one of them keeps trying to get out of his arms when Newton tries to show him how to hold them. Gyro has no trouble holding them, however, and he keeps one still so Fenton can pet the unbelievably soft fur. Gyro caresses the tip of the little tail with his fingers and makes a remark under his breath about it reminding him of Fenton. His face goes hot and he glances at the kids, afraid they may have heard their uncle’s words.

He waits until the kids are washing up for dinner before asking Gyro if the barn animals are raised for meat.

“Nah,” he shakes his head. “They used to raise pigs when we were younger, but we all kept getting too attached to them. There was one named Charlie that Dad kept around for years. It was a cantankerous old thing; I think it reminded him of himself. The goats and cows are dairy breeds, and the rabbits are just for show. Dad’s hobby, breeding them for the fair. He sells them as pets in town too, the ones he doesn’t think are good enough to keep. Mini rexes really are too small to be a good meat rabbit.”

Feeling substantially relieved, Fenton follows him downstairs for his first family dinner with the Gearloose family. Faith renewed.

For about five minutes, anyway.

That’s how long it takes Mrs. Gearloose to start asking her son about having kids.

“You have five years on Johanna and look at her,” she points out, tongue loosened after having already helped herself to Gyro’s wine while in the midst of the cooking process. “Don’t you want to carry on the family line? We give you that genius brain of yours and you don’t want to pass it on?”

“Can we not talk about this?” Gyro asks, laying his hand over one eye, clearly exasperated. “Just for once? Can we just go one Christmas without having this conversation?”

“Your mother’s right,” Mr. Gearloose says gruffly. He’s individually serving each plate cuts of the roast beef his wife had prepared for dinner. Fenton’s plate still sits in front of him, waiting his turn as the last one at the table, so he has nothing to distract him but his glass of wine. When he reaches for it, he knocks over his glass of water which Gyro catches before it spills. “You’re not getting any younger. The chances of a young woman showing any-”

“Dad!” Fenton is happy to see it’s Johanna cutting off the older man. A sense of solidarity floods his chest. “Leave him alone! Gyro is doing well for himself, aren’t you, Gyro? Didn’t you tell me you received an award a couple months ago?”

“Oh!” Gyro perks up at the reminder. “Yes. It was from the state energy board in recognition of my-”

“Speaking of awards,” Mrs. Gearloose cuts in. “Gigi, honey, your mom told me you won student of the month recently?”

Gyro takes a deep breath, rolling his eyes upward. Fenton notices the movement of the words as he counts silently to himself. Reaching under the table to grab at his hand, he squeezes it as reassuringly as he can. Gyro squeezes back, hard, leaving Fenton grateful that it isn’t the same hand he used to shake Mr. Gearloose’s earlier that day. He’s not trying to hurt him but Gyro is obviously frustrated and wants Fenton to know it. They both reach for their glasses of wine.

* * *

Over the next couple of days, Fenton begins to understand why Gyro had seemed so agitated by the idea of visiting his parents. There is obvious warmth at times between them but nothing he does seems to be able to please his parents. Their favoritism towards Johanna is blatant and Fenton doesn’t know if this is some family dynamic that has existed since they were small or if it arose after Gyro “ran away from home” as his parents put it.

Fenton is also genuinely unsure if they realize he and Gyro are together or not. Gyro doesn’t attempt to hold his hand or hug him or kiss him when any of them are around, but that isn’t his usual way of acting in normal circumstances. He is not affectionate in public, and half the time he isn’t even in private. Except when he’s visiting his parents, apparently, because every time they’re alone he’s on Fenton like he’s his own personal security blanket, always touching him, petting him, kissing him. Not necessarily in a sexual way, even if they just are alone together for a minute Gyro reaches for him. He won't leave his tail alone but he at least sticks to petting the top rather than the underside.

On the second evening, Mr. Gearloose brings up the subject of his son finding a wife with a few “laying years” still under the belt. After dinner, Gyro drags Fenton up the stairs with a vice grip on his wrist, his own belt already undone, and slacks unzipped before they even make it into the room.

“Laying years,” he spits angrily, pulling Fenton’s sweater roughly over his head. The duck knows better than to even try to object. “I know what I’ll be laying for the next few years and it isn’t going to be some ditzy housewife.”

He pushes Fenton down onto the pull-out and fucks him hard enough that even with Fenton trying his best to keep quiet, the pounding of the couch against the wall makes it obvious exactly what is happening inside the room. It’s angry sex, somewhat uncomfortable on Fenton’s side because he’s fully aware that Gyro is using his body to vent his frustrations. He’s fully capable of taking the abuse. Unlike Gyro, Fenton is soft and padded in all the right places to endure a rough pounding, but it doesn’t do anything about the tension. He hates looking up and seeing the rage on his lover’s face, so he closes his eyes and concentrates on the physical sensations instead. He enjoys the roughness, the passion behind it, he just has to remind himself that Gyro isn’t angry at him. 

Only once they’re done and Fenton is spread out like a starfish on the bed, just staring at the ceiling sweaty and dazed, does he worry about what the kids might have heard. He strokes Gyro's back, even runs his fingers over one of his long, red tail-feathers. Much longer than any of the feathers on Fenton's own body but he always hides them, claiming they're "embarrassingly small." God, just one of them is longer than Fenton's arm. Roosters and their damn feather insecurities.

At least the questions about the girlfriends and wives stop after that. Fenton doesn’t think that Gyro was trying to make a point when he took him that forcefully. Not to his parents, anyway, maybe to himself, but it’s a nice side effect.

It’s Christmas Eve day, and Mr. Gearloose takes the kids out to cut down the tree. Fenton has never had a real tree for Christmas, even as a small child his family had owned the same artificial one white that’s set up in his own living room right now. 

“I can’t believe there are families that actually wait until Christmas Eve to get their tree,” he muses, leaning against Gyro’s shoulder now that some of the tension is gone with Mr. Gearloose out of the house. “I thought that was only on television.”

“We used to cut them down a few weeks before,” Gyro says, shrugging. “I think he just likes to wait until the kids are around. Mom says it never feels like Christmas unless there are some kids in the house.”

Johanna and Chris brought a bottle of some sort of liquor they claimed to have made back home a few months ago. They bring it out and pour shots for them all, including Mrs. Gearloose, while the kids are gone.

“Well, not made,” Chris explains. “We’re not brewing moonshine in our basement. It’s just a liqueur we made with store-bought vodka. We more like…flavored it.”

It’s very floral. Reminiscent of chamomile tea or something along those lines that Fenton can’t quite place. It burns going down but when Johanna offers him a second shot he accepts. Only two days among the Gearloose family and his nerves already feel shot. It’s easier to relax and talk with alcohol in his bloodstream. Gyro drinks three shots then disappears upstairs for ten minutes, returning with the smell of whiskey on his breath.

Mrs. Gearloose spends half the day in the kitchen, either baking cookies or preparing the Christmas Eve meal of Salmon Wellington. Fenton has no idea what Salmon Wellington is so Gyro explains it’s their traditional Christmas Eve dinner, salmon coated in cheese and baked in a fluffy crust. So much work for one meal, Fenton feels drained just hearing about it. But it smells delicious once it’s in the oven.

Mr. Gearloose and Gyro put up the tree together. It towers over them and Fenton stares up at it, wondering how they’re supposed to decorate the last third of the thing. He assumes they’ll decorate it immediately, but Mr. Gearloose tells the kid it needs time “to settle” and they’ll do it after dinner. He goes out to feed the sheep and animals in the barn after, taking Newton and Saggy along with him. Gigi stays to color in her coloring book, asking Fenton to join her. He isn’t exactly sure what he’s done to win her over, but she seems enamored with him.

“My best friend back home is a duck,” she says to him over the smell of crayons and recycled paper. “Her name is Fanny, she’s in my dance class. But she has white feathers like me.”

“I know a lot of ducks with white feathers,” Fenton tells her. He watches her color in a hen princess with a light brown crayon. “And some with green feathers and some with red feathers and some with black feathers. What are you hoping Santa brings you for Christmas?”

“I don’t know,” she replies cryptically.

“Well, I’m hoping Santa brings me a new microscope,” he tells her. “I could really use one. I have to share your Uncle Gyro’s right now.”

“Santa doesn’t bring presents to adults,” she informs him, absolutely confident of her knowledge in the matter. “That’s why you have to get married, so your husband can give you presents instead. Are you going to marry Uncle Gyro? He gives the best presents.”

“Georgina!” Johanna sounds aghast by the child’s question. Fenton just laughs. As if he hasn’t asked himself that same question. God, they haven’t even been dating a year though, imagine bringing up that question to Gyro.

He disappeared somewhere, luckily. Probably the bathroom with how much he’s been drinking today.

Christmas Eve dinner goes surprisingly well. There are a few times that Mr. Gearloose starts to say something that may be heading towards the wrong topic, but Mrs. Gearloose cuts him off every time, turning the discussion back to the kids or Johanna’s work or a story about Gyro from his childhood. Fenton finds himself laughing at every story and finally beginning to enjoy himself. Maybe there were just some early introduction jitters. Most of Gyro’s family seem normal enough, warm in the way families should be around the holidays. Mr. Gearloose is a grumpy old man but so is Gyro and Fenton still loves him. Some people are just like that.

He offers to help Mrs. Gearloose with the dishes but she tells him she’ll get to them later. It’s time to decorate the tree and that is a full family affair. The radio is turned to some old-timey Christmas station with instrumental music. No singing but the tunes are classic and familiar. Gyro is given the job of stringing the lights and garland first and then out comes the box of ornaments. The kids decorate the bottom of the tree and the adults the top. Fenton hangs back, unsure if he’s supposed to join in until Gyro hands him a little sleigh made of wooden popsicle sticks and construction paper and tells him to find a place for it. There is what appears to be an old school picture of Gyro on it, probably about kindergarten age, and Fenton can’t help but fawn over it.

“You were so cute,” he coos. He finds a spot on the thee somewhere between where the kids have been hanging their ornaments and the adults have been hanging theirs.

“Wasn’t he?” Mrs. Gearloose asks from his side. “Whatever happened to my cute little boy?”

“I think he’s still cute,” Fenton blurts, not catching what he says until it’s too late. His hand slaps over his mouth in reflex. He glances at Gyro nervously. There’s a clear tension in the way he’s standing, a stiffness in his back, but he doesn’t say anything or even look toward Fenton. He bends over to rifle through the box, pulling out a couple more ornaments. He hands Fenton a sequined apple.

Gigi is the one who puts the topper on the tree. A white and gold angel with long, flowing hair. Her fathers picks her up and holds her on his shoulders to help her reach.

Once they’re done, the children get into their pajamas and everyone sits down to watch Polar Express together in front of the television. Except for Mrs. Gearloose, anyway, who goes into the kitchen to finish up the dishes on her own. The children are excited but try their best to tire themselves out because the quicker they get to sleep, the quicker Christmas comes. Fenton, favoring the same approach, pets Saggy as he downs two glasses of wine. He misses that song he likes with the girl on the train.

* * *

Fenton awakens with the signs of an early wine hangover already pounding in his head. His mouth feels fuzzy. The window shows only inky blackness and when he looks at the dusty-looking deer-clock hanging above the desk, he sees it isn’t even midnight yet.

Did he pass out that early? How long did he sleep? He’s confused, mind fuzzy, trying to remember if he went to bed early or if he had taken a nap that had lasted much too long. What day is it? How did he get upstairs? Did he miss dinner?

And where is Gyro? His side of the bed is cold. He doesn’t sleep as much as Fenton but he usually at least lays next to him, playing on his laptop or phone while Fenton sleeps. Why wouldn’t he be in bed by now?

Bathroom. Fenton needs to pee, and maybe brush his teeth. He stumbles out of bed, shaky on his feet. He didn’t even drink that much. One of those types of hangovers you normally just sleep through. He knows he’ll be fine by morning, even an early Christmas morning, but that doesn’t help with the headache now. And he still needs to fish out Gyro’s present from his luggage and hide it under the tree.

He doesn’t even make it to the bathroom. The voices coming from downstairs distract him. Gyro and his parents and his sister, it sounds like. Shouldn’t she be in her room with her family by now? On Christmas Eve? Shouldn’t they all be asleep, waiting for Santa to arrive?

Gyro sounds angry. Not even catching the words, Fenton knows his tone of voice. Not that Gyro hasn’t sounded like that half the time they’ve been here, but he usually doesn’t raise his voice. Not this much. He isn’t yelling but it’s close. Fenton takes a few careful steps down the stairs, trying his best to avoid making any of them creak, until the voices become clearer. He sits down on the fourth step from the top and listens.

“You brought him here just to upset me and your mother,” Mr. Gearloose’s voice accuses. His voice is drawling. Drunk, probably. “You purposely wanted to push your liberal lifestyle in our faces.”

“Dad, I doubt Gyro had any plans to-” Johanna begins. She sounds like she’s crying.

“I can speak for myself, Johanna,” Gyro says. He’s clearly trying to speak kindly to his sister, but the words are laced with rage. Then he seems to be speaking to one or both of his parents again by the change in tone. “I’m a grown man and I can live my life how I want.”

“Your father just wants what is best for you,” Mrs. Gearloose pleads, simpering.

“I want what is best for our family,” Mr. Gearloose corrects his wife. Something bangs and Fenton jumps an inch in the air. “Do you really just want to let our family name die? You’ve always been so resentful towards this family. Didn’t you have a family that loved you? Took care of you? Fed you? And this is how you repay us?”

“It’s just, dear, you always seem to go out of your way to find somebody who is so unlike us,” Mrs. Gearloose’s voice is kinder than Mr. Gearloose’s but her point is no different than her husband’s. She’s saying the same thing with nicer words. “You don’t have to feel the need to constantly rebel against us just to prove a point.”

“Virginia, stop coddling the boy,” Mr. Gearloose scolds her as if she was one of his children. “He brought home some deviant boytoy for Christmas and you make it sound like he picked up the generic stuffing instead of the Stouffer’s.”

Boytoy? Is that how they see Fenton? As Gyro's boytoy?

“Dad, you can’t refer to somebody like that,” Johanna objects, voice offended on Fenton’s behalf. “We don’t even know this kid.”

Thank you, Johanna.

“We know enough,” Mr. Gearloose says.

“He really is awfully young,” Mrs. Gearloose muses. “Gyro, honey, why are you going after boys half your age?”

“He’s not half my age!”

“Does he even work with you?” Gyro’s father demands to know. “I have trouble imagining that boy even knowing how to use a wrench. Every time he tries to speak, something stupid comes out of that ugly duckbill of his. He lives in America, he should learn to speak English.”

“Dad!” Johanna sounds horrified by her father’s words.

“He speaks English perfectly fine,” Gyro nearly yells this part. “Hearing a couple of Spanish words isn’t going to make your stupid flag suddenly burst into flame!”

“Did you go out of your way to find him in one of the Latino districts? Some sort of cruising spot for older men to pick up young boys?”

“I can’t believe you’re accusing me of this,” Gyro squawks, indignantly. “He was my intern! He’s not stupid, he’s just young!”

Fenton holds himself around his waist. Does he really come off as that stupid? He's shaking, his insides feel cold.

“Mom, Dad, can we just-”

“Johanna, go to bed,” Mr. Gearloose commands. Not harshly but strictly, as if she were not an adult but his teenage daughter still living under his roof. “Unlike some of my children, you have to get up early with the kids.”

“So that you can yell at my brother in peace?”

“Don’t you want to make sure you have a nice Christmas morning with the kids, dear?” Mrs. Gearloose cajoles.

“I’m not letting you guys gang up on Gyro,” Johanna says defiantly. “You’ve always criticized anybody he’s brought home. Love is love, why can’t you two see that?”

“He is a duck! A barely legal, male, Spanish speaking, commie duck! Look, your mother is crying.”

Fenton takes a deep breath in and lets it out slowly. He’s not ashamed of what he is but the way that man, Gyro’s father, says it…

“He is twenty-five!” Gyro cries out. “Just because he looks young-”

“Mom is crying because you’re yelling,” Johanna says. Fenton thinks it’s in response to what her father had said but he can’t be sure.

“What did we do to make you like this,” Mrs. Gearloose moans. “You were such a sweet, good-natured boy.”

“Why a duck?” Mr. Gearloose bellows. “What is wrong with dating within your own species? First, it was that duck girl you dated in middle school, then that goose you took to prom. Are chickens below you? Did you fall for some self-hating BS at that hippie college you went to?”

“I don’t have to explain my decisions to you.”

“You do if you need to drag your disgusting fetishes through my front door.”

“My boyfriend is not a fetish!” Fenton almost jumps at this. Gyro is screaming. Not even yelling, screaming. He can’t remember the last time he heard him sound this pissed off. Even when he had messed up horribly during his internship, he had never sounded so enraged. “And I’m not going to stand here and listen to you insult the man I love any longer!”

Fenton doesn’t have time to hide before there are footsteps on the stairs. He makes it to the top of the staircase, but he and Gyro meet eyes as he ascends around the corner landing. When he sees Fenton was there, listening to the conversation, his look of surprise quickly shifts to one of defeat.

“I’m sorry you had to hear any of that, however much you heard,” he says, putting his arm around Fenton’s waist. He leads the both of them back into the bedroom. “Come on, let’s pack up and go.”

“Go?”

“Home,” Gyro clarifies. “My home. If we leave now, we can make it there and get a couple of hours of sleep before sunup.”

“But you were drinking at dinner.”

“Just a couple of glasses of wine, I’ll be fine. 

Gyro’s parents must have gone to bed right after the argument because, by the time they get downstairs with their luggage, the only one sitting by the tree is his sister. Her eyes are rimmed red and she’s still sniffling. She gets up to hug Gyro goodbye and then surprises Fenton by also giving him one.

“I’m sorry our parents are such assholes,” she says to both of them. “I can’t not visit them at Christmas though, can I? They’re so good with the kids. And they’re my parents.”

“I wouldn’t ask you to,” Gyro says softly. He bends down to unzip a duffle bag and begins to remove wrapped boxes from it. He sets them aside from the rest, leaving them stacked up on the coffee table. The presents he had brought all the way from Duckburg for the kids. “But I don’t think I’ll be coming back here. Maybe, maybe after you spend Christmas with them, you can drive down and spend the New Year with Fenton and I? I understand if you already have your plans set this year, but perhaps next?”

“That sounds nice,” she nods. “I’ll have to talk it over with Chris, but I think the kids might like seeing the city. They’re getting older now anyway, the farm isn’t as fun for tweens.”

“Keep in touch,” Gyro says, giving her another quick hug. He turns quickly and grabs his suitcase by the handle. The softness in his voice evaporates. “I need to get out of here, this place is so suffocating. We should be able to make it home by- Oh, it’s past midnight. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” Johanna sniffs. “God, what a Christmas.”

They load up the car. It’s freezing outside. According to the car’s screen, it’s 31 out. Cold enough to snow. It doesn’t usually get that cold in Duckburg in the winter, but the elevation is higher out here. Fenton pulls his jacket tighter around himself and Gyro sets the heater to blasting.

They drive in silence for a good thirty minutes. Fenton brings up the map and tells him when and where to turn, the signs almost invisible on dark country roads without any streetlights insight. Gyro’s gripping the steering wheel tightly with both hands and in the sepia glow of his phone, Fenton can still see the tightness in the man’s jaw. Then they reach the freeway and it’s like the tension just drains from Gyro’s body. He releases a long, breathy sigh and shifts up to sixth gear as they’re finally on their way. Only then does he reach over and take Fenton’s left hand, bringing it up to kiss his knuckles. He doesn’t release it when he brings it back down to his thigh.

“I really am sorry; this has to be your shittiest Christmas ever. I bet you wish you had just gone to Florida with your mother.”

“How can it be my worst Christmas when we’re not even an hour into it?” Fenton asks. He leans forward to play with the dials on the radio, finding some station playing some old Christmas carols. “Besides, if I was in Florida I wouldn’t be here with my boyfriend, would I?”

“Oh,” Gyro says. He snorts, dismissively. “You heard that part, huh?”

“The part about me being your boyfriend? Or the part about you loving me?”

“Don’t sound so smug about it, it’s not like you didn’t know how I felt already. I just get passionate when I’m angry, sometimes.”

“But you never said it to me,” Fenton says, smiling to himself. “You love me.”

“Okay, dummy, yes, I love you. Is that what you wanted? A Christmas love confession like some cheesy holiday movie?”

“Yes. And I’m your boyfriend?”

“I brought you home to meet my terrible family, I think that’s obvious at this point.”

Fenton smirks. Pulling the lever to adjust the seat so that he can recline more comfortably, he settles down, yanking Gyro’s hand over so it lies on his chest. He closes his eyes, ready to get back to sleeping off the wine hangover. He doesn’t see the reaction to his next question.

“So, when were you going to tell me about your duck fetish?”

“Sh, shut up. I can’t help it if you’re all so damn soft and cute, can I?” 

**Author's Note:**

> I headcanon Gyro being about 45 due to the Astroboyd episode. Akita mentioned that it had been 20 years since he saw daylight and saying Gyro was a youngish intern (he's a genius so I imagine him maybe being a couple years ahead) he would have been going for his doctorate at about 25.


End file.
